by BJ Hoff
The thought of the Seanchai, the brokenhearted look on his face when he had explained about Finola, brought on still another fit of weeping. Annie swiped at her eyes with her sleeve, blotting tears that simply would not stop falling.
Morgan stopped outside the chapel doors to give the wolfhound a reassuring pat on the head, then wheeled himself inside.
He stopped when he saw Annie. She was on her knees at the altar. As always, her thick black braids were askew, unable to contain the heavy, stubborn hair that Mrs. Ryan daily attempted to force into place.
Her back was turned to Morgan, but he saw the heaving of her narrow shoulders and knew that she was crying.
His own eyes stung at the sight of her grief, but he remained where he was for the moment. It was a rare thing indeed to see Annie weep. She might pout, often scowled, and could wither a strong man with her smile. But seldom…seldom, did Annie weep.
She prided herself on being nearly grown, and on being strong. She hated it when she was caught unawares, being a child.
But now Annie was crying, sobbing at the altar, weeping like a stricken child whose heart was broken. And yet, Morgan saw that, between sobs, the lass was praying.
Praying, no doubt, to her newly found Savior for the life of her newly found friend.
Annie, wee fey Annie of the sturdy heart and stubborn will, did love Finola, and now was grieving—and pleading—at the altar of the Lord.
She did not seem to hear his approach. She made no move to resist as Morgan wheeled himself down the aisle and reached for her. She looked up, scrambling to her feet and into his arms. He settled her securely on his lap and cuddled her head against his shoulder.
He thought his own heart would break as she shuddered in his arms.
“Seanchai…oh, Seanchai…I don’t understand!” was all she could manage between wracking sobs.
Squeezing bis eyes shut, Morgan held her small, thin frame close. Murmuring softly in the Irish, he tried to console her. Even as he comforted, he drew a kind of strength from the child, this child he loved as his own.
Annie had suffered the torment of violence, too. She knew all too well the terror, the pain, of being beaten and abused. Perhaps she, better than any one of them, could understand and share the horror of Finola’s nightmare.
As her sobs gradually subsided, Annie rubbed at her eyes with the palm of her hand. “Why didn’t God rescue Finola, Seanchai?” she asked, her voice choked with unshed tears. “Why didn’t He help her?”
Like a bitter echo of his own challenge to the Lord, Annie’s question hovered between them. “Some things we are not meant to understand, child,” Morgan choked out. He went on rocking her in his arms as if she were naught but a babe.
Another tremor seized the narrow shoulders. After a moment, she pulled back just enough to look at him. “I don’t understand why I got away, but Finola didn’t,” she said, her dark eyes searing his skin.
Morgan realized then that she was remembering her drunken stepfather’s last assault on her, the attack that had sent her fleeing her home, seeking shelter in the narrow streets of Belfast.
“Why,” she said again, “didn’t God help Finola escape, instead of allowing her to be so badly hurt?”
Morgan drew a long, shuddering breath. “Ah, Annie, alannah, I do not know. I do not know. Your questions are my own, and I have no answers. For some questions, I’m afraid, there simply are no answers.”
Behind them, soft footsteps drew near. Two large hands—dark hands and strong—clasped Morgan’s shoulder, then the child’s.
Sandemon stood behind the wheelchair, touching them, drawing them into a circle of three. “You speak the truth, Seanchai,” the black man said quietly. His own voice seemed choked with emotion as he went on. “For some questions, there may not always be an answer. But, always…always, there is Jesus.”
Louisa found the three in the chapel. The child was in the Seanchai’s lap, the black man at their side, when she entered.
As one, they turned to watch her approach.
“What word?” the Seanchai blurted out.
“The surgeon is about to leave. He wants to speak with you.”
The big man in the wheelchair made no reply. He seemed to be holding his breath, reluctant to learn whatever the physician might have to tell him.
Finally, he managed a word. “Finola?”
Louisa had not understood before that moment. Morgan Fitzgerald was a man of impressive self-control. Even stricken with grief or dread, he kept his own counsel. His eyes revealed no secrets, though at this instant a glimpse could be gained of a mighty heart under siege. Yet the way he said the girl’s name, breathed it, like a prayer, his intent green gaze pleading, told Louisa what she had not recognized before. He loved the broken girl with the silent scream.
She must not let him wait a moment longer. “Finola will live.”
He sagged with relief in front of them all. He simply went limp, with the child in his arms. Ducking his great head like a penitent restored, he moved his lips in what was obviously a prayer.
The child’s thin little arms went around his neck, and when she murmured something in Irish to him, he nodded.
Sandemon’s eyes locked with Louisa’s in a question.
She shook her head as if to say she had no answers. They would wait on God.
The Seanchai lifted his head. “May I go to her now?”
Instinctively, Louisa again looked to Sandemon before turning back to her employer. “I think not,” she said carefully. “Not just yet.”
His gaze never left her face. “Why?”
Louisa hesitated. There was nothing, of course, but to tell him the truth. Still, she did her best to soften it. “The girl is just beginning to rouse. She’s confused, naturally—disoriented. Her mind is wandering.” She paused, drew a steadying breath. “She is still very agitated—very disturbed. Even the sight of the surgeon seems to panic her.”
The entire time Louisa was explaining, she could almost feel the sinking of the big man’s heart. But she must finish. He must know. “The surgeon isn’t quite easy about her mind. He—”
“What about her mind?” Her employer’s hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair as he sat forward. “What about her mind?” he repeated, his voice deadly quiet.
Louisa cringed inwardly, but she met the pain in his eyes straight on. “No one escapes violence unscathed, Master Fitzgerald. But it has been my experience that the innocent—those who seem to have an essential goodness, a purity to their spirit—most times suffer the most severely.”
His gaze never wavered as Louisa went on. “Finola is the victim of a particularly vicious, savage attack. And Finola,” she said, her voice faltering for an instant, “is a very gentle, sweet, trusting young woman. She has been plunged into a nightmare, and, as yet, is quite…unable to deal with it. At present, she is in a state of hysteria—she is not herself. Dr. Fielding strongly recommends that as long as this is the case, it would be better if you don’t try to see her. She won’t even allow him near her. Obviously, the girl is terrified.”
The man looked so stricken that Louisa longed to find some word of comfort to offer. “It may not last very long at all,” she added. “I’m sure that the moment she starts feeling…better…she’ll want to see you. It’s just that, for now…”
She let her words drift off, unfinished. It was obvious the Seanchai was no longer listening.
13
The Folly of Delay
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
W.B. YEATS (1865–1939)
New York City
Mid-November
When Sara realized that the incident with Tierney was not going to change Michael’s mind about a Christmas wedding, she hardly knew whether to feel disturbed or relieved.
She didn’t want to delay the wedding. The very thought cast a pall of gloom over her days, made her heartsick. Yet given the seriousness of Tierney’s injuries—and his unre
lenting opposition to the marriage—she could only believe that to push ahead with their plans might serve to increase the boy’s antagonism.
Even now, a week after Tierney’s beating, she continued to argue that perhaps they should postpone their plans. Yet every time she broached the subject, Michael remained adamant in his refusal even to consider a delay.
This evening he had stopped by after dinner with the news that he’d be taking Tierney home on Friday. As they stood talking in front of the low-burning fire in the parlor, he pulled Sara to him, smiling a little. “The doctor says Tierney should be entirely recovered before the holidays. So you see, there’s no need for any further talk of delaying the wedding.”
Sara allowed herself to be held for a moment. “You’re sure he’s strong enough to handle the ferry ride? It’s been only a few days, after all.”
Michael nodded distractedly. “He’s on the mend, right enough. He’s been wanting to get out of Walsh’s house since the first day, of course, but the doctor wouldn’t give his approval until now.”
Neither the note of cheerfulness in his tone nor the reassurance of his strong embrace helped to ease Sara’s nagging doubts. She was convinced that Tierney would resent her all the more for intruding upon his relationship with his father at such a crucial time.
She confided these concerns to Michael, adding, “I can’t help but wonder if we wouldn’t be wise to wait.”
Michael clasped her firmly by the forearms and pulled away just enough so that he could study her face. “Sara,” he said, his impatience not quite concealed, “you know that my relationship with Tierney is already strained to the breaking point. More and more we are like two strangers.”
The pain in his eyes belied the hard edge to his tone. Sara tried to interrupt, but he shook his head and went on. “The boy has virtually shut me out of his life. He makes no secret of the fact that he resents me, wants no part of what he calls ‘my kind of life.’ So tell me, then, Sara, what, exactly, do you think we could accomplish by delaying our marriage?”
Sara drew in a long, shaky breath. “I just don’t want to make things any worse than they already are,” she said softly. “Tierney is your son, Michael!”
His expression of pain gave way to a smoldering anger. “And you will be my wife! Even my son will not rob me of that!”
His hands tightened with such force that Sara winced. Immediately, he gentled his touch. “I’m sorry, Sara! I’m sorry,” he said again, his features softening to a look of remorse. “But don’t you see, asthore, there is nothing you can do—nothing we can do! If Tierney is bent on turning away from me, and from everything that matters to me, there will be no stopping him.”
The hurt in his eyes made Sara want to weep. “Oh, Michael, I’m sorry! I hate it that Tierney dislikes me so much, but I could bear that! What I can’t bear is the thought that I might come between you and your son.”
Again his hands tightened on her. “Sara, listen to me: God knows I’d do almost anything to change things between me and Tierney. But one thing I will not do: I will not give you up for his foolishness! I will not lose you—not even for my son!”
The intensity of his love hit Sara like a blow. If she had ever before this moment doubted the depth of Michael’s feeling for her, she knew she never would again.
He gathered her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. Sara felt as if she would melt into his strength, be absorbed by the exquisite tenderness in his eyes as he lifted her face to his and kissed her.
“Christmas,” he whispered. “You will be mine at Christmas. You promised me.”
Unable to do more than nod her agreement, Sara wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her face against his shoulder. Clinging to him, she silently prayed…again…that they were doing the right thing.
The next day, a midmorning summons to her grandmother’s house caused Sara to turn her attention, at least temporarily, from the difficulties between Michael and his son to her own family
Robert, the elderly driver who had been in Grandy Clare’s employ ever since Sara could remember, came for her just before eleven. Since it was only a short walk to the rambling Gothic mansion on Thirty-fourth Street, Sara was somewhat alarmed to see the carriage pull up.
Her grandmother’s recovery from a light stroke the past summer had been slow and not altogether complete. The fact that she still insisted on living alone, with only the aging Robert and a small staff of servants—most of whom were as old as Grandy—was a constant source of concern for the entire family.
Robert, however, relieved Sara’s mind by assuring her that her grandmother was not ill. “Nothing like that, Miss Sara. She said I should tell you right away that she’s not feeling poorly, just lonesome for your company. It looks like rain, she said, and I should bring the carriage for you.”
As Robert helped her from the carriage, Sara was glad for her grandmother’s thoughtfulness. The air had turned bitterly cold overnight, and the first drops of a frigid rain were, indeed, beginning to fall.
Her grandmother was waiting in the tearoom upstairs, Sara’s favorite room of the house. The lace curtains had been pulled back to allow entrance to as much light as possible. Grandy Clare, small and erect, sat by the window at a lacquered desk.
As soon as she saw Sara, she replaced her pen and extended her hands. “Ah! You’re just what’s needed to brighten this dismal morning! Come in, dear—come in! Come, sit close to me.”
Sara bent to kiss her grandmother’s scented cheek and squeezed her hands—thin hands, dry and not as strong as they had once been. Sara noted a slight trembling as she clasped them.
Pulling up a rose brocade chair next to the desk, Sara smiled at her. “You’re certainly about your correspondence early this morning, Grandy. You’re not writing another letter to the Tribune, are you?”
With an indignant sniff, her grandmother reared back in her chair. “I’d not waste the ink!”
“Why, Grandy! I thought you liked Mr. Greeley.”
“Oh, Horace is all right, I suppose.” Her grandmother gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “If you don’t mind the fact that he’s pompous, dogmatic, and altogether too emotional. Horace hasn’t yet learned to line up his ducks before he starts shooting.”
“But he does take a stand,” Sara reminded her, laughing. “He’s sympathetic to the Irish, remember.” The colorful editor of the Tribune had made a personal contribution to assist Ireland and also printed an appeal for public donations. “And he’s virulently opposed to slavery.”
“And women’s suffrage,” Grandy Clare pointed out dryly. “If Horace would simply learn to control his temper, he’d sound a great deal more like a crusader and less a fool. At any rate, I’ll not bother to write him again. Even though we’re friends, he quite obviously thinks me brainless because I’m female. No, what I’m doing this morning is writing out some instructions for Robert and the other servants, just to keep on hand. Things were a shambles when I came home from the hospital. I mean to make certain it doesn’t happen again.”
Alarmed, Sara leaned forward to clasp her grandmother’s frail wrist. “Grandy! Robert said you were well, but you’re not, are you?
“I’m quite well,” her grandmother countered, her eyes snapping. The small, oval chin—the same chin as Sara’s—shot up. “I am, however, eighty-three years old. I have had one stroke and two rather serious bouts with pneumonia. It seems only good sense to take precautions. Good heavens,” she went on briskly, “the last time I had to lie in, nobody could seem to find anything. Why, the servants didn’t even get their wages on time!”
Sara couldn’t suppress a smile. Her grandmother’s ruthless household organization was a family joke. “We’ve told you for years you shouldn’t be so efficient, Grandy. Now you see what happens when you’re indisposed.”
“Indeed I do, and that’s why I don’t intend to let it happen again. Such an uproar!” Pushing back from the desk, she turned around to face Sara.
Sara loved her small, frail grandmother deeply. When Sara’s mother died, Grandy Clare had come to stay with them for several months. During that time of loss and bewilderment, the frightened five-year-old Sara had forged a bond of love with her grandmother, a bond that had only grown stronger through the years. They were more than family; they were friends. To Sara, life without Grandy Clare was inconceivable.
“I don’t want to talk about me,” her grandmother said firmly. “I want to talk about you. And your young man. How is Michael, by the way?”
The faint twinkle that usually danced in her eyes returned and Sara responded with a smile of her own. “He’s just fine, Grandy. Father did tell you about Michael’s appointment to the new subcommission?”
Her grandmother nodded, smiling. “You must be very pleased. And I’m sure Michael will be a real asset. Perhaps he’ll light a fire under some of those stuffed-shirt do-gooders.” She paused. “I don’t mean your father, of course. Lewis is a fine man, if a bit hardheaded at times.”
She studied Sara for a moment. “You’re still planning a Christmas wedding, I take it? A private ceremony?”
Sara nodded, but even her slight hesitation seemed to trigger Grandy Clares suspicions. “Sara? There’s nothing wrong between you and Michael, surely?”
“No—oh no! Of course not!”
“Good! You know, for a time, I was afraid the two of you might allow the boy’s injuries to change your plans. I’m glad to see you haven’t.”
Sara looked at her. “Then you don’t think we’re wrong to go ahead with the marriage?”
“Wrong?” Grandy Clare lifted an eyebrow. “Certainly not! Your handsome Irishman is quite wonderful! I say, marry him, and Godspeed!” She stopped, her sharp gaze probing Sara’s. After a moment she frowned and leaned forward on the chair. “You are thinking of delaying the wedding, aren’t you? Why, Sara? Because of the boy?”